


Innocent

by Macdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdragon/pseuds/Macdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For stilinskiandhiswolves on tumblr. Part of the Johnlock Challenges September Gift Exchange. </p>
<p>John has been accused of a crime he didn't commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> The prompt I got was: "This new case of Sherlock’s seems to point to John as a suspect, but Sherlock never once doubts John’s innocence. Even when everyone else is suspicious, Sherlock’s faith doesn’t waver (he eventually solves the case, proving John was innocent), and John doesn’t know how to feel about that. Any rating."
> 
> Sorry, I know I kind of went off prompt and this wasn't as caseficcy as I had originally intended. This was the first Johnlock fic I ever wrote so I apologize if characterization is clumsy. Also, you can probably tell it was supposed to be longer, but I ran out of time with school and whatnot getting in the way. I hope you enjoy it despite the flaws!

The trial had been going on for days. The hours had begun to blur together, and John had stopped paying attention to the witnesses, the evidence, the proof that he was guilty of the murder of an old friend from university. Sherlock would have been impressed, he thought; everyone had the case so neatly tied up, leaving no doubt that he was the culprit. Except John didn't do it. 

Sure, he and the friend—Marcus, god rest his soul—had a bad falling out shortly before graduation. And John had been unstable lately, visibly depressed and angry after Sherlock's suicide. Sitting alone up there in that flat all day, who knew what plans he might have schemed up. Besides, he had the skills. He used to joke about how his “bad days” in the army.

Such were the facts as presented in the case. John still didn't do it. He wasn't sure who did and he couldn't muster up the energy to try and figure it out. Sitting beside his lawyer, looking out at the stern-faced judge and the psychologist who was currently at the witness stand testifying against him, John wondered how Moriarty had managed to be so charming under trial. John certainly wasn't going to get out of this the way Moriarty had. He wasn't clever enough. And right now he was just tired. It would be so easy to just close his eyes and doze off...

The sound of the courtroom doors banging open startled him awake. John found himself reaching for his gun in the split second before he remembered that he wasn't in Afghanistan. Trigger happy and jumpy, not a good selling point for the trial. Sitting up, he turned to see who had just barged in, and--

John's heart stopped. Time itself stopped. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the tall, dark haired man standing at the entrance of the courtroom, his stance defiant.

No, it wasn't Sherlock. It was Sherlock's forgotten twin brother. Sherlock was dead. 

Judging by the hush that fell over the courtroom, broken only by a few startled gasps, everyone else was shocked too. The imposter's eyes flickered over the room and settled on John, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. 

John stared back, frozen in place. He knew that look. It was Sherlock, even if that was impossible. For a moment, they just looked at each other, John glued to his seat, Sherlock still hovering in the doorway. 

The judge broke the silence. “Sherlock Holmes, showing off again!” 

Murmurs broke out among the audience. Yes, maybe that explained it. It had all been an elaborate trick after all. Despite the absurdity of a person coming back to life, Sherlock Holmes would be the one to do it. That was the easiest way to process what was happening. 

John understood, too—it was a trick. All the therapy, the depression, the anger that had been so terrible that it made him an easy suspect in a murder case, it was all because of an _act_. 

As if being put on trial for murder wasn't bad enough. John's day had just gotten even worse. 

Suddenly, John was out of his seat, wrenching out of his lawyer's grasp when the man tried to hold him back. He leaped across the aisle and launched himself at Sherlock, hands balled into fists. 

Except that Sherlock stepped deftly out of the way, sending John flying past him. “You can't punch me unless I ask you to.” There was that infuriating smile again. John ignored the judge yelling at them both to stop this nonsense and whirled around, still glaring at Sherlock. 

“You left me all alone...”

“Calm down, John.” Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, and the gesture silenced him more than anything the judge could say. “Sit down and let me explain why you didn't commit this crime. Rampaging about isn't going to help convince anyone.” 

John allowed himself to be gently pushed back to his seat, and Sherlock began to speak, explaining all of the things the investigation had missed. John knew that he should listen, get the details of his own acquittal, but he felt like he was drowning in that voice. The words didn't matter, really. Sherlock was here, alive, and for the first time in months, John felt like he could breathe again. 

***  
The court adjourned for the day in order to consider the evidence that Sherlock had presented. John sat outside the court house on the stone steps, feeling strange without the company of his lawyer. It was dusk, and the air was growing chilly. John zipped his jacket up, hoping that Sherlock's interview would end soon. He understood that clearing up this case would take time, but he only wanted to be at home, in the flat, with Sherlock in his chair and things in the proper order again. 

“Here. It looks like you could use this.” As if on cue, Sherlock appeared beside him with two styrofoam cups of tea. John laughed, even though he felt like crying. Countless times in the past few months, he had wished Sherlock would just pop up in front of him. Until now, the wishes had been futile. 

“Four months of faking your own death, and you apologize with a 90 p cup of tea,” John said, wrapping his hands around the warm cup. 

“Not to mention saving you from a lifetime of imprisonment.” Sherlock took a sip of his own tea, acting calm. 

“You really think they'll believe everything you said in there?” John asked. There was still a sense of niggling doubt. Maybe people would still think Sherlock was a fraud, leaving them both right where they started. 

“Once they double check all the information, yes. And then they'll begin to question everything else they thought of me...”

So this was part of a bigger plan, not merely a timely rescue for a friend. John frowned, staring out into the street rather than looking at Sherlock. People walking by, eager to be home after work. Cabs speeding down the road. It was dusk, and the last weak rays of sunlight illuminated it all. “Until you showed up, I didn't even care if I went to prison. I thought it couldn't be much worse than sitting in that flat by myself.” 

“I'm sorry.”

Sherlock never admitted that he was wrong. He didn't apologize. The two words caught John off guard again, and he looked up, opening his mouth to say something—he wasn't sure yet, but then a commotion down the street captured his attention. A news van was zooming towards them, cutting off honking cabs. 

He felt fingers twine through his own and he looked down, almost expecting to see that someone else had materialized beside him. But that was Sherlock's gloved hand in his. The world felt like it was spinning around him, but that was just because he had skipped lunch, and the stress of the trial. 

“It's the media. They want both of us. Remember when I took you hostage? Let's run.” Sherlock tugged on their joined hands and pulled him forward, and they raced away together, headed in the direction of the flat.


End file.
